Just Kin (Texas Romance Book 6)

by Caryl McAdoo

  “Oh, I’d been up, but my head hurt so bad even the hot bath and pot of coffee Uncle Henry got me couldn’t cut the pounding from the pint of rot gut I’d swilled the night before.”

  His words pushed both boys back. Their mouths gaped open, but neither spoke.

  “I’d won some money playing mumbley peg and…” A sigh lifted his shoulders, and he shrugged. Praise the Lord, it had worked out for him. “I wasn’t there for Henry when he needed me. And when I asked, Sergeant Nightingale tells me you two didn’t pull your weight today, that the two of you barely cut a ton of hay.”

  Again both remained speechless.

  “What if a Comanche raiding party had hit us last night? Or a brigade of blue coats had come calling for breakfast?”

  “They –”

  “Silence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He glanced at Wallace. “Anything you want to add, Major?”

  “No, you covered it fine, sir.”

  Levi looked back to his son and brother-in-law-of-sorts. “Hopefully, you two have learned why we don’t allow drinking on post. And if either of you two so much as smells a cork again before this war is over, it’ll be a month in the brig and permanent K.P. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get out of here. Clean up. You both stink.”

  The two came to attention, saluted, then turned and marched out. Levi held it until they had to be out of earshot then chuckled and faced Wallace. “Why didn’t you tell them about that time in Laredo?”

  The major shook his head. “Neither of those boys knows about my sordid past. How can you tell that story without mentioning the sporting ladies I was in lust with? Best we let those days stay out in our past. They’re under the blood now.”

  True enough and good advice, but unfortunately, Levi’s sins were visiting his son. Hopefully, Bart would not have to kill as many men as he had stalking his dreams.

  But regrettably, Charley was well on his way.

  Every time he was lucid enough for Lacey Rose to ask about his floozy, he had her pour more laudanum down his gullet then chased it with a slug of whiskey. She hated him hurting so badly, but truth be known, it served him right.

  Got caught double dealing! She could have beat that game straight up.

  Each time she returned, the room stank of man—sweat and medicine—throw in the whiskey, and it could make a woman lose her breakfast. Good thing he’d stashed all those gold coins in his bag.

  And even better that she got to the Astor House when she did, before that woman found them.

  She still cringed every time she thought about all the greenbacks she’d left on that poker table.

  Mid-morning of the eighth day, the second of August according to the New York Times he been reading all spread out on the bed, it wouldn’t wait another minute. He’d gone a whole hour without a sip or nip of anything. She sat in the straight back, out of his reach.

  Not that he could do anything with those busted up fingers.

  “So what’s her name?”

  He looked up, holding both bandaged hands out. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The woman in your hotel room.”

  “There was a woman in my room?”

  Man, did the liar ever have a great poker face. “Yes, and when I walked in, she called your name. All sweet and nice like you and her were old friends.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence. How many whores live in your room?”

  He chuckled. “None. Now what did she look like?”

  “Thirtyish, dark hair, no clothes, in your bed…recollecting anything? Random memories?”

  He squinted one eye then smiled. “Sounds like my wife. Did she throw anything at you?”

  Tears welled. “You’re…you’re…married?”

  “Was. Not anymore. She comes around some if she gets wind that I’m in town.”

  “Why? If you’re not still married?”

  “Money. Old times. A fight? Who knows? She’s crazy. Good thing I wasn’t there.”

  “How’d she get into your room?”

  “Don’t know. Remember? I wasn’t there. Tell you for sure I didn’t invite her though. You’re the woman I love. And I’ll never want another.”

  The blood drained from her face. He loved her? He’d never said that before. “You do? Really? You mean that? You’re not just saying it because of her, are you?”

  “No, I really do, Alexandra. I love you with my whole heart.” He held his arms out.

  She jumped up, stepped in close and kissed him, then leaned back. “What’s her name?”

  He smirked, shook his head, then gave her a fine-I’ll-tell-you-anything shrug. “Melanie Washington, George’s double grandniece if you’re gullible enough to believe her. Except last I heard, she’s still using Spencer.”

  “So that’s your real name? Jackson Spencer?”

  “That’s what’s listed in the family Bible, but I prefer Jack Spade. Like the sound of it, don’t you? And don’t you like Alexandra better than Lacey Rose?”

  Uncertain who she was anymore, she didn’t know if she liked either. Her shoulders bobbed in response to his question. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, I know this much. We need to get out of town.”

  “But why? You can’t travel, not yet. What’s your hurry?”

  “The draft.”

  “But the lottery was last month. Don’t you remember? The Irish rioted over it. You really suppose they’ll have another one so soon? Do you?”

  “Depends. Old Abe needs cannon fodder. Robert E. Lee is winning battles left and right, and even Bloody Grant can’t take Vicksburg.”

  She didn’t care about the stupid war. Let all of them kill each other. But they had no right to make her Jack fight. He couldn’t get drafted. Why would they want him anyway with two unusable hands? “Where are you thinking to go?”

  “How much money we got left?”

  “Fourteen Double Eagles, another thirty bucks or so in silver.”

  He held his hands over his head. “Shake the bed.”

  “Why? I don’t want to hurt you.” Except a part of her did, him being married before and never mentioning it once.

  “Let’s see if I can stand a train ride.”

  He could, but only with too much sipping and nipping on his medicine. Left her to do it all. The tickets, the baggage, getting him settled in. But wasn’t that what a wife did? Take care of her man?

  The Great Lakes steamer proved much easier on him, and though he didn’t stop completely, he’d cut back considerably on the medicine and the whiskey, which certainly came at a price.

  All told, took two weeks, five fifths of hooch, and four pints of laudanum to make Chicago, but some movement returned to his fingers during the trip.

  Two days after Union General Blunt’s forces captured Fort Smith, Arkansas, following the battle of the Devil’s Backbone, Lacey spent the last Double Eagle booking two weeks in a south side hotel that neither she nor Jack would have ever been caught dead in before his accident.

  Except…it hadn’t been an accident at all.

  That’s just what he called it.

  First night there, he swilled the last of his medicine, flopped down at the room’s little table, then nodded at his bag. “Hand me a new deck.”

  She did as told—not really seeing why--and held it out. “That was the last pint.”

  “I know. Sit down. I want to teach you how to double deal.”

  “Oh, baby, I –”

  “Sit. You spent our last Eagle getting us into this dump. We’ve got what? Another fifteen dollars to our name? How long you think that’s going to last?”

  She eased into the other chair. “I’ll get a job. Let me do that.”

  “Doing what? Washing dishes? No.” He held his hands up. “My fingers may never be right again.”

  “I can win without cheating.”

  He nodded toward the cards. “You’re w
illing to risk what little we have left? No, ma’am, I’ll not have it. Now shuffle the pasteboards.”

  The rest of that night and for the next week, he grilled her, but she couldn’t ever get it just right without looking. And that, according to him, would prove deadly.

  But she hated the idea of cheating, being a cheater, and couldn’t wrap her sense of right and wrong around his plan, no matter how hard she tried.

  The morning of the next to last paid day, he made her give him all the silver then put on his best suit of clothes.

  “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

  “Out.” He flexed his fingers. They bent about half of normal. “Whatever it takes. We need a grubstake, and…” He shrugged. “I’ll be back. You keep on practicing, and no peeking.”

  The yessir didn’t make it past her clenched teeth. Instead, she lifted a shoulder, sat down, and gathered the cards. Sometimes, she hated him all the way around the stump.

  He returned before the sun went down, carrying a wrapped package, and grinning liked he’d discovered the rainbow’s pot of gold. “Pack up. We’re moving.”

  She loved the Merchants Hotel on Washington Street. Even had a high-backed metal bathing tub in the water closet. Then she enjoyed the late supper with his old friend, Harold Longstreet. Almost like old times.

  The man, a nice enough guy for an old fellow, was a bit of a dandy. She couldn’t believe it. In just a few hours, it seemed he’d turned fortune around.

  Twice, she’d tried to pry it out of him—how he managed to pull it off—but his lips remained sealed, and only one explanation that came to her mind. He must have sold his father’s gold watch.

  Still, if that were true, why wouldn’t he just say so? He certainly laughed and acted as if all the troubles from the horrible attack lay behind them.

  For that, she was thankful.

  Finishing the last sip of the second round of after-supper brandy, he bid his friend a good night then whisked her back to the room. More surprises! A silky red nightgown. She held it up to her chin.

  “I love it, Jack, but I’m dying to know. How did you ever accomplish this? Where did you go this afternoon? What did you do to turn things around?”

  He bit his bottom lip, then pulled up his shirt, revealing a full money belt. With obvious discomfort, he fished out then handed her twenty-five Double Eagles.

  “Wow, five hundred dollars.”

  “Yes. Maybe a loan. From Harold.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t like the look in his eyes. “How are we going to pay him back? And why the maybe? I don’t understand.”

  He backed away a step. “Well, either you put on that gown and be nice to Harold when he comes up, or I give him all this money back.”

  “What? Jack! What are you saying? I can’t do that!”

  “Maybe you can’t, Lacey Rose. And if that’s what you decide, I’ll abide by it, but I know Alexandra can. She’s a survivor. She’d do whatever it took.” He backed up another step then put his hand on the door knob. “What’s one night compared to twenty-five Double Eagles?”

  “But…”

  “How many dishes would you have to wash?”

  “But, Jack…that’s like… No. It is.…”

  “Fine.” His tone dripped with disappointment and disgust. “Should I go? Or do you want to take Longstreet’s coins back to him?”

  Chapter Eight

  Lacey stared at him. She’d been relegated to fourth wife status.

  When just the ladies gathered, either in the bathhouse or the kitchen, sometimes Miss Sassy would tell of the first time Buffalo Hump, the great Comanche war chief, laid eyes on her. He made his displeasure obvious the next morning over Bold Eagle sending his fourth wife to his honored guest’s tent instead of his Red Rose, Miss Sassy’s Comanche name.

  She’d smirked then shrugged. “Almost made me love the savage.”

  The words played over in Lacey’s heart.

  Miss Sassy had survived the Indians, a bigamist, and then finally found true love. Lacey could do anything for one night.

  No, actually she couldn’t, but like Jack said, Alexandra could. That woman would do whatever it took. That lady ate Harold Longstreet and his kind for supper, then left them begging for dessert.

  Lifting her chin, she hefted the coins. “I hate you, Jack. And your friend. We’ll be checking out tomorrow. I’ll find us something nice, clean, but I won’t stand for blowing through this money. Do you hear me, Mister Spade?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And Alexandra, for the rest of the night, he’d like to have you answer to Myra.”

  “What? Why?”

  “His dead wife’s name. You remind him of her.”

  “Oh, perfect.” She snarled her lip. “Get out of here.”

  Charley sank his spurs deep into the bull-headed bronc’s flanks, but he only snorted.

  “Had enough, have you?” He leaned forward and nudged the stallion with his knees. The mustang obeyed with an easy walk.

  “Wonderful. Good horse.” He plow reined to the right. The animal turned. Then left, and it obeyed. He pulled back on the halter, and the beast came to a stop, but pawed the ground like he didn’t like it and might be thinking about going another round. Charley waited a bit then swung out of the saddle.

  Slowly, he walked to the railing, the lead rope slack. The stallion followed.

  Good, the brute didn’t bite him. First, he loosened the buck strap and unbuckled the cinch, then lifted the saddle off and onto the top rail in one quick motion. He rubbed the sweat- soaked hair dry as he could get it then removed the halter.

  Shooing the stallion back to the far end of the corral where the rest of the hard cases waited, he glanced west. Enough sun for another one. He grabbed his lariat and walked toward the herd, careful to keep his eyes lowered.

  “Hey, Sarge.”

  The greeting turned him around. Both his boys hurried toward him.

  Charley grinned at the pair. “Are the Yankees coming?”

  Houston beat the younger to the railing. “Not a chance! They couldn’t even get ashore.”

  Bart joined him. “We just got word. Lieutenant Dowling and forty-four men at Fort Griffin beat four gun boats and seven troop transports. That’s what we heard.”

  “Yeah.” Houston grinned. “They captured one Yankee gunboat and over two hundred men.”

  “No, it was exactly two hundred.”

  “Was not.”

  “Now you girls stop your bickering. I’m plum tuckered from busting these broncs you two couldn’t handle.”

  Houston snarled his top lip, but didn’t comment on the barb. “Pa, uh, General Buckmeyer to you enlisted types, wants a word.”

  Charley nodded toward his saddle then once Houston had it slung over his shoulder, he climbed the fence. “Wasn’t Dowling and that bunch with him sent out to Fort Griffin as punishment?”

  “Yep, and from what Pa—Colonel Baylor to low-life sergeants—says, they spent their time practicing with those new cannons. Seems they got the job done.”

  “Bart, he’s my Pa, too.”

  “I know. But you started it, calling us girls.”

  Charley didn’t respond, but walked toward headquarters with a boy on each side, same as it had been all their lives, him and his boys. Didn’t know what he’d do without them. Though no blood kin to Houston, he loved him like a brother, too.

  A chuckle escaped.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “You two…or…more us, I guess. Seems like I’m destined to be you two’s nursemaid my whole life.”

  Houston sprang out front, spun, and put his dukes up. “We’ll see about that.”

  Charley shook his head. “It ain’t a good day to die. Now behave.”

  The boy lowered his fists but continued walking backward. “So what do you think? Will we ever see any action?”

  “Hope not. That dust-up Pa and Uncle Wallace and I was in…it’ll last me the rest of the war.”

  Bart elbowed hi
m. “That Yankee you killed been troubling you any?”

  “Nope.” Charley hated lying, especially to his little brother.

  “Not even a little?”

  “It’s war, Bart. They kill you, or you kill them. It ain’t on us, just like Uncle Henry said. We didn’t start this war, and any soldier we kill is on the head of them who did.”

  Neither of his boys said anymore. Getting too close to headquarters, and like him, they were under strict orders not to take advantage of being Henry’s kin.

  Instead of news of Lacey as he’d hoped, the General only wanted to talk about the failed invasion of Texas. After what seemed too long of a diatribe, he stood.

  “The Yanks are not going to stop trying. The cotton we’ve been escorting south is pumping life into the Confederacy. Do not take any chances or ignore any signs.”

  “Yes, sir, I mean no, sir.”

  “I want to know about the least little thing. Looks like this war is going to drag on…another year, maybe more. Rumors are running rampant that if Lincoln loses the election next year, and Bobby Lee can hang on, it will be over in early ’65.”

  His uncle didn’t say more, but Charley could see the wheels turning.

  Even with Governor Houston dead, there still might be a chance Texas could be a Republic again. Charley would like that, but not nearly as much as he’d like finding Lacey Rose safe and sound.

  That night, his lie came home to roost. Had to endure the dying screams of the bluecoat he’d run through with his bayonet. With the last moan, as the Union soldier finally died, it all changed. He faced Lacey.

  But a thousand Comanche braves stood between him and her, each painted for war.

  Above their whoops and coyote calls, a voice rode the blowing winds right into his heart.

  “Save me, Charley! Kin takes care of their own.”

  He sat up then threw his feet over the side of his cot. Bad night when his dead and Lacey stalked his dreams. For a bit, he debated trying to find sleep again, but seldom was able, and so he rose with a stretch and heavy sigh.

  His mama claimed Colonel Baylor didn’t sleep much either.